


Soaked Rags

by greysynonyms



Series: Detroit: Become Human Songfics [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Android, Comfort, Connor being adorable, Dpd, Drug Dealer, Drug Use, Explicit Language, F/M, Future, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Police officers, Pre-Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Slight Memory Loss, Trauma, Violence, Vomiting, as per usual, red ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 12:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15143279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greysynonyms/pseuds/greysynonyms
Summary: Because, sometimes, Hank can't be there for you.





	Soaked Rags

**Author's Note:**

> “I got too high again, realized I can't not be with you”

       “Detective, please, try to focus on me.”

       Your world feels like it’s spinning, the outer edges of your vision obscured with red, your eyes and throat irritated and sore. Your entire body itches as if there’s something crawling across your skin and you want to scratch-- _ need  _ to scratch--but there are hands on your wrists holding them tightly and preventing your nails from reaching your arms and legs. You flex and unflex your fingers, flex and unflex, flex and unflex, try to get a grip on reality but the goddamn  _ itch _ is driving you mad. “Let go of me,” you say, tugging against the hold on you--hissing in pain at the sensation that shoots through your arms, and you’re not sure if it’s from the grasp or something else but all it does is make you more  _ angry _ . “I said let go!”

       A strong hand grabs your chin and forces your head up and the android--the android, fuck-- _ Connor _ \--stares back at you. “The red ice in your system is causing you to feel unwarranted anger, detective. I will not release you until you’ve calmed down.”

       Your eyebrows pinch, a flurry of emotions nearly giving you whiplash as they try pulling you in several different directions at once; confusion (why is he talking about red ice?), pain (his grip is tight, the itch is intense, your body is sore and you don’t know  _ why _ ), anger--anger, so much anger. You grit your teeth, ball your hands into fists and lash out against the hold on you, punches landing on Connor’s face and neck and chest. You watch as his skin turns white where your hits land and then slowly morphs back to its normal, pale skin-tone. 

       Tears prick at the corners of your eyes and it stings. “Connor, what’s happening to me?” you sob, leaning forward to press your forehead against his collarbone. 

       You feel him tense briefly and then he carefully lets go of your wrists to smooth his hands across your back.

       The moment he releases you you place your hands on his chest and shove as hard as you can--he falls back with little resistance and seeing him like that, lying back with his eyes just slightly wider than normal, his LED spinning yellow, creates a surge of different desires. You want to smash that pretty fucking face of his until it’s covered in blue blood, you want to peel that artificial skin away until you can see what he really is--you want to climb that tall body of his like a fucking tree and see how long it’ll take, how much he can handle, before he breaks that proper façade of his and really  _ moans _ for you. 

       You scramble away from him as quickly as you can, until your back hits the wall, and then you wrap your arms around your legs and rock yourself back and forth. You have no idea what’s happening to you, why you’re thinking like this, and it scares the shit out of you. 

       Connor sits up and stretches his neck and shoulders in a way that he doesn’t really need but is used to make him look more human, “The thirium used in the creation of red ice is known to cause a destabilizing effect on the production of hormones. My scans show you’re experiencing a rapid rise in cortisol, epinephrine, and estrogen, among others. Your blood pressure is also rapidly rising, as is your heart rate. I suggest we find a way to calm you down before you become even more unstable.” 

       You weave your hands into your hair and pull at it until your skull prickles with pain. “Why do you keep talking about red ice?!”

       The android tips his head, eyebrow arching; slowly, he gets to his feet and takes a cautious step towards you. “How much of the events of the past three days do you remember, detective?” 

       You frown, grind your teeth, tug harder at your hair--it’s not enough so you swing your fist into the wall so hard that the drywall cracks; the motion causes intense pain in your hand and wrist and you feel a short moment of clarity. “I remember a, a basement, I think,” you say through gritted teeth. “I remember it was cold.” You pinch your eyes shut, trying to force more memories forward. “I remember a man.”

       Connor is close to you now, kneeling right in front of you but not moving to touch you at all--giving you space. “What did the man look like, (y/n)?”

       “I don’t--I don’t remember.” 

       “You have to try.”

       “You think I’m not?!” you snap. You dig your nails into your arms so hard you cut crescent-shaped marks into your skin. Connor is quick to reach forward and grab your wrists again to stop you (and it fucking stings again), but instead of holding you at arms length he pulls you into his lap, cradles you like a child. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

       He holds you close even as you struggle against him, transfers both of your wrists into one hand and wraps the other arm securely around your shoulders. “I’ve analyzed several different methods of comfort online and it seems close contact will be the fastest way to calm you down, detective,” he says in a even tone. “Please, do your best to remember the events of the past three days.”

       You settle into his embrace after a few more minutes of struggling, tuck your head under his chin and try to relax. Connor smells good, clean and familiar, and it helps ease some of the tension mounting inside of you; the gentle brush of his hand up and down your back helps too. You shut your eyes and try to remember everything despite whatever it is that’s coursing through your system telling you that you need to fight, scream, punch, _ hurt _ . 

       You think about the basement again, about how cold it was, about the man whose face you can’t picture. You can remember that your wrists and ankles were bound with rope that was tied too tight, you can remember a voice demanding something--information? A ransom? You’re not really sure--from someone over the phone. Your body begins shaking and Connor holds you tighter, stroking deft fingers up your back and into your hair, rubbing soothingly over your skull. You take a shuddering breath and try to focus on the gentle feeling of his fingers rather than the fury still boiling through your blood; you bury your face further into the side of his neck to hide from the ruddy streaks in your vision--you open your mouth, pant hot air across his throat, and carefully scrape your teeth against the tendon (wire? cable?) that stands out against his artificial skin. You feel Connor’s fingers press just a little harder against one of your temples and you pull back, snap your mouth shut, utter a quiet apology.

       “There is no need to apologize for what you can’t control, detective,” he assures you. “I simply want to make sure you’re focusing on past events rather than current.” Even as he speaks his hands are still massaging soothing patterns into your skin to help calm you down, his voice still carrying that usual authoritative tone but softer, easier on your ears. 

       You give him a shaky nod--you want to help. You force your mind back to the basement, back to the conversation you were overhearing: a man threatening to harm you if the DPD didn’t back off his territory, the same man hanging up his phone and snarling something about how androids are ruining everything. Then suddenly you can remember a silhouette standing over you, you can remember dirty hands holding your jaw, fingers in your mouth to force it open, yellow teeth just before chapped lips forced red smoke from their lungs to yours. You feel bile rise in your throat and shove away from Connor moments before you throw up what little content you have in your stomach all over the floor. 

       “He--he forced me to take red ice,” you say through a coughing fit, and then those teeth, those lips, his smug fucking smirk flashes through your mind again and you violently dry heave. More memories arise from the back of your mind: memories of you in your apartment, alone after a long day with Connor and Hank working on a case, the sound of glass shattering as someone broke your window. You remember the feeling of grubby hands on your arms, over your mouth to stop you from screaming. You remember the pain in the back of your head as you were struck with a blunt object. Tears drip from the tip of your nose to the floor as another wave of nausea makes you dry heave again. A hand lands firmly in the center of your back and you flinch before you have a chance to realize that it’s just Connor, that he’s informing you that he’s going to get you a glass of water.

       By the time he returns from the kitchen--water and a few soaked rags in hand--you’re leaning up against the wall furiously wiping tears from your eyes. “Sorry,” you apologize weakly, throat raw and scratchy. 

       “Again, there is no need to apologize.” He hands you the glass of water and then carefully places one of the rags across your forehead.

       You sigh in relief at the cool feeling against the overheated skin of your face. “Thank you.” You gulp down the water faster than you probably should, but it feels so good that you can’t help it. You feel slightly mortified when you watch Connor lean down to clean up the mess you made on the floor, but you don’t even try to move to stop him; you feel extremely tired suddenly, which you suppose is better than the blind rage you were feeling before. God, why would anyone ever get addicted to something that makes them feel like this? 

       “Detective, I regretfully must ask you again,” Connor says conversationally, as if he isn’t busy wiping your vomit from the carpet. “Do you remember what the man who kidnapped you looks like?”

       “Um, I remember,” you wipe the sweat from your neck, shut your eyes because even the dim light of the moon shining through the window is too bright right now, “he had long hair that was tied back, and a five o’clock shadow. His teeth were,” you feel as though you might get sick again for a second but you swallow it down, “yellow.”

       “Likely a heavy user of his own supply,” Connor nods. “Anything else?”

       “I know he was a bigger guy, but,” you shake your head ruefully, “I didn’t ever see his eyes.” You crack an eye open when you hear Connor rise to his feet and then you watch as he carries the dirty rags into the laundry room and disappears around the corner. You feel like such an idiot, such a failure of a police officer--not only did you get caught by some two-bit drug dealer with an android complex, you’re also completely useless now because you can’t even give a good description of what he looks like.

       You meet Connor’s gaze when he returns and watch as the corners of his lips pull down in a slight frown. “I’m detecting a spike in cortisol again, detective. Is something the matter?”

       You sigh, reach up to pull the cloth on your forehead down over your eyes; you know that you can’t tell Connor, that he won’t be able to understand your frustration now matter how you try to spell it out for him, so instead you just shake your head. “No, it’s--I’m okay.” You feel your shoulders begin to shake again and you wonder how you can possibly feel so hot and so cold at the same time. “Would you, uh…” you feel a flush in your cheeks that has nothing to do with the drug “mind, y’know, h-holding me again?” You didn’t think it was possible to feel even more stupid, but here you are. “Just until the last of it leaves my system, I mean, if you don’t mind?”

       “Of course, detective.” And then he’s kneeling down and scooping you up into his arms as if you weigh nothing, carrying you to the couch and sitting down with you in his lap. He’s warm and surprisingly comfortable to lean against considering he’s a machine--when he wraps his arms back around you and smooths his hand from your back up to your neck you feel yourself stop shivering and smile contentedly. “Is this satisfactory?”

       “Yes, Connor, thank you,” you say. You begin to feel the weight of the evening, of the past few days, slip from your shoulders and you allow your eyes to drift shut. You fall asleep to the sound of Connor’s steady breathing and the feeling of the rise and fall of his chest against your cheek.

       .

       .

       .

       .

       That’s where Hank finds you the next morning.

       He’s frantic to reach you, speeds the entire way there in his police cruiser because he knows that he can, nearly busts your front door down despite the fact that he has a spare key. He’s so worried, has been ever since he and Connor rescued you; because, of course, instead of just giving him the rest of the night off Captain Fowler had demanded the police report ASAP. He turned the poorly-written piece of shit in as soon as he could, feeling like he accomplished basically nothing around his high-strung emotions--knowing you were finally safe after everything you had gone through, knowing that Connor was with you when he couldn’t be. 

       He’d be lying if he said that the sight of you, curled up and tucked so closely to the android, sleeping so peacefully, didn’t churn something foul in his stomach.

       He pushes it to the back of his mind, ignores it because it’s not important.

       It’s not important that Connor was the source of your comfort all night, it’s not important that Connor held you all night while you slept, it’s not important that Connor was the one who was there for you when Hank should have been.

       None of that is important.

       That’s what he tells himself. 

**Author's Note:**

> Based on "HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON'T" by Fall Out Boy.
> 
> Hooray for finally not a Panic! song


End file.
